


Goodnight, Jim

by TheBobblehat



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBobblehat/pseuds/TheBobblehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he was the Napoleon of crime, before his was a name that others feared to say, James Moriarty was the bottom of the barrel. Organizing two-bit heists since he was a teen, James finally lands the big job, only to be betrayed by his heist mates. Left to die in the gutter, James is ready to go out of this world the way he came in: unimportant and alone. It's only when he's found by a stranger does James start on the path to becoming who he was meant to be, with the man he was meant to be with.</p>
<p>From his rise to his fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodnight, Jim

There was something fascinating about death. He'd always thought so. The sudden switch from energy to non existence. Light to dark. A sort of universal slumber, of which the dreams were unfathomable and incomprehensible. Ever since he was a little boy, he'd been obsessed with the concept. Tried it out a few times. Small things. Bugs. Rats. Cats. There was nothing quite like watching something blink out of reality. Especially if it was by your own hand. He himself had never killed a person. He thought of it often. Fantasized about it. The thought of squeezing a trigger, and watching the very life leave another man's eyes. Or a woman's. He didn't discriminate. The feel of squeezing his fingers tight around a fleshy throat. The adrenaline of watching them squirm.

Perhaps then, came the thought, it was appropriate for him to die before he got the chance.

For he was dying. Slowly. Painfully, too. Amid the soft rain that fell at three in the morning, James Moriarty laid in the gutter of an abandoned street, staring up at the cloudy sky. Bruises littered his face. His neck. Arms and legs. Along his shirt, a glistening, dark pool of red cloistered on his stomach. You couldn't even see the stab wounds. The rain was nice. Barely felt, but nice. Really, the pain was like a dull roar by now. James had lost enough blood to start going woozy. In his prolonged period of waiting, he let the rain splash his face, the only part of his body on which it registered. They'd done quite a fine job of him. James had never been the brawling sort though, so he guessed they had a significant advantage. Probably why they tried in the first place. James didn't have much of the means to fight back.

His fingers twitched, a steam puff leaving his lips. He laid in silence, feeling the cold claws of death start to wrap itself around his body. Would this be the last thing he saw? Dark, amorphous buildings surrounding him as the rain washed away his blood? Not even the street lamps were lit. He felt like he was truly, and utterly alone. Well... not like he wasn't used to that. As he closed his eyes, ready to let fate take him, something caught his attention. Soft at first. Almost like someone chewing. No... no... those were footsteps. Shoes crunching muddy gravel. James tried to turn and look, but his vision was starting to leave him. What little moonlight there was lit up the contours of a looming, faceless figure. Rain dripped from their short hair in droves, a coat collar popped up against the light wind. James tried to focus, but had little energy to do so. In spite of his curiosity, James was pulled deeper and deeper into that blackness until he could see nothing at all. But as he dipped into unconsciousness, he heard something. A man's voice. Almost as though it was speaking within his own mind.

“ _Right... might as well get you home then._ ”

 

 

 

“A job well done, mates!”

There was a great cheering as a group of men trounced their way up to the bar, one of them ordering a round for the lot. They were a loutish bunch, complete with leather jackets and questionable tattoos. The pub they currently patroned was empty, save a few very shady onlookers. Most of whom seemed ready to simply keep to themselves. There was one in the group, however, who seemed just a bit out of place.

James was the smallest of the five of them. Rather than throw on a few bits of leather to make himself more intimidating, James wore a dirtied old pair of jeans, just beneath a raggedy old jumper. One he always wore. Often times, it'd be a point of fun for the others. Some of them even took to calling James “Oxfam” behind his back. Or to his face. Honestly, they didn't care much. Closing his lap top, James took his own pint with a smile. They all toasted to a successful job, whatever that job had been, and set their glasses down.

“Really spot on, boys!” he said with excitement. Hoisting himself on his stool, James pat the bar, his dark eyes twinkling. “I think this is the best haul we've had yet.” He chuckled, patting his computer bag. “I'd say we just tore a hole in the queen's pocket book, eh?”

“A three million quid sized hole,” a second bragged, taking another drink. “Can't wait to see this hit the news.”

“Now James,” a third interjected. “You sure them cameras weren't workin, yeah?”

“Absolutely sure.” Picking up his laptop, James cracked it open just to prove to them all that the cameras were still not working. “Took quite a bit of finesse to get them all off line, but I managed.”

“Good man.” A fourth patted him on the back before taking a swig. As he did so, the last member of their party laughed to himself.

“Tell ya what I'm gonna do with mine. I'm gettin' my arse out of London. Got too many people ready to shoot on sight.”

“More like too many women, eh, Ken?” They laughed together, James nursing his beer. He wasn't much of a drinker, but being at a pub forced him to. If not, the lads would do nothing but take the piss until he did so. So he sucked it up and drank.

“I'm finally gonna get me a Ferrari. You won't pay me to part with that bloody thing, I swear.”

“Hell, we'll all get one. Might as well buy 'em in all the colors of the rainbow!”

Setting his pint aside, James folded his arms on the bar, smiling from ear to ear. “I think I want to get deeper into the business. What do you think, boys? Maybe branch out. Start our own contractor work? Hell, we could be paid regularly to do things like this. You know, the real market is in info trading. If we can work our way to getting our hands onto something top secret, something the government has hidden away, we could make a fortune!”

As brilliant a plan as this was, it did not get the reception James was hoping for. Blinking, he looked between his four other companions, waiting for affirmation. A smile, a nod, anything. None was given. Finally, Rod – the sort of self proclaimed leader of the bunch – set his beer down and put a hand on James's shoulder.

“James... Jimmy boy... See, we've been thinkin', and hard, mind. Don't take this personal, now, but the boys and me think we should part ways.” James, his chest caving in, turned to the others. Rod continued. “You was great for a while, James. We coulda never done what we did without you. But now that we got the break we was looking for... 'fraid we gotta turn you loose.”

James wanted to pipe up and argue. While he hadn't considered any of these men friends, these were the first few people he'd ever been close to since childhood. He would have thought there had been some sort of loyalty there. But no. Not a word was said in his favor. Or at all. Realizing that his want to argue was beyond help, James let out a depressed sigh. “I see... Right... Fine. If that's how it is.” His jaw grinding in irritation, James snapped his computer bag shut. “Just give me my 600 and I'll be on my way then.”

“Bout that...” Rod rubbed his jaw, brows raised slightly. “See, we got a bit of a problem. You was helpful and all, but we were the ones doing all the work. And frankly... Splitting up the till five ways, I don't see how that's fair. You didn't do much, really.”

Now _that_ could not go without comment. “Didn't do-? Am I not the one keeping you asinine imbeciles out of jail?”

“There you go again, being smart.” Rod sucked on his teeth, standing from his stool. He was, notably, a much larger man than James. Two heads taller and at least twice as wide. “Now you know the boys don't like it when you use them big words, Oxfam.”

James laughed to himself. He did that often. Laughed. More or less, he did it when he had nothing else to do. He laughed to hide embarrassment. To cover pain. He couldn't help it; strange as the habit was, it was a defense mechanism. Had been ever since he was a boy. Licking his lips, James turned away, hovering over his beer. “Right well... maybe if I wasn't working with the last known species of neanderthals in existence...”

“Whachyu call us?” One of the others had stood, his big, hairy knuckle resting on the bar.

“Dashingly handsome,” James translated. In a huff, James stood, swiping his computer bag in the process. He knew this was no winning battle. He didn't get into a lot of those, frankly. Easy to know when one was on the horizon. “All right then, gentlemen. If we're done here-” Before he turned, however, a hand went to grab his shoulder. Rod was staring him down, the others now encircling him against the bar.

“And let you walk out with everything on there?” His head bobbed down to what James held beneath his arm. “Sorry. Afraid we're going to need that.”

Almost instantly, James pulled the bag to his chest. “What makes you think I'm giving it to you?”

“What makes you think we won't take it?”

James paused, analyzing the situation. Mathematically speaking, there was at least 800lb's ready to pounce on him at any given moment. James knew they didn't fight clean. Even if he hadn't known them for more than a year, he could tell. He could already imagine what kind of wounds they would leave. Major bruising. A few broken bones. Remembering what some of them carried on their belts on a daily basis, probably worse. Eyes dropping, he stared at the bag in his arms. James had never had a great track record with finances. He'd been born into a lower class family. Went to a lower class school. Practically every article of clothing had belonged to someone else. The only thing that was his – truly his – was what he held in his hands. And now, someone wanted to own that too. So maybe he was crazy. Maybe he had a death wish. Whatever the reason, his arms tightened on that dinky little computer and he turned up to them, a smile on his face. Yet again, he laughed.

“Absolutely nothing.”

 

 

The first thing James saw was gray. Just a massive, massive slab of gray. A floor? No, a ceiling. He was laying on something. It was not the cold floor of a baron flat, but a mattress. Old, creaky and abused. Still, James couldn't help but be glad for it. Through the drawn blinds above him, soft sunlight leaked in. He could count every dust bit that floated within it. His entire body felt groggy. As though he were made of lead. His throat, he noticed almost immediately, was unbearably dry. As though he'd gone for days without water. Taking what strength he had, James turned his head to the side. A plate of pasta and a glass of water sat waiting for him. Confusion hit his face and he took in the rest of his surroundings. It was just as plain as the ceiling. James likened it to a concrete box with a door. The floor, at least, had a little carpeting, in spite of it being directly out of the 70's.

James tried to sit up, but a sharp pain hit his stomach. Blinking, he turned down to his body. James was in nothing but his trousers. On his stomach, where the five and a half stab wounds sat, a roll of gauze now kept him together. The bandage on his inner elbow also suggested whoever saved him from the street gave him a little more blood to live on. Unable to sit up, James took the glass of water and drank. A bit of it sloshed to either side of his mouth, but he didn't care much.

“You're awake. Good.”

Pausing, James turned his eyes to a stranger in the room. Now in the morning light, James realized that the man standing before him must have been the faceless figure from the night before. Or had it been two nights? James had no concept of time anymore. The man approached, and James was able to take a few more details in. He was tall. Taller than him, anyway. With slicked back, dark brown hair. Judging by his wrinkles, he had to be at least in his thirties, though he probably acted much older. His physique also suggested that he'd kept up on his crunches probably a little too much. He wore a simple black shirt, tucked into military grade cargo breeches. His boots were black and thick, and heavy enough to crunch James's head in a single move.

“Where am I?” James finally asked.

“Nowhere special.” Crouching down, the man helped James sit up with as little pain as possible. “How are you feeling?”

James winced a bit, but settled once he was finally right side up. “Peachy,” he said with a shrug. “Nothing I haven't had to deal with before. Though the stabbing was new...” He glanced upwards at the man's neck. A silver chain hung around it, a pendant tucked within that shirt. A lopsided smile came to James's face. “Either that's a set of tags, or you're the strangest vicar I've ever seen.”

The man's face did little to change. Looking down to his necklace, he pulled them out. They were, in fact, dog tags. James's smile widened as he read the lettering. “Do all Green Beret commandos go around saving gimp dogs or am I special?” He re-read the tag. “Mr. S M.”

The man let it fall back to his chest, turning instead to the plate of pasta. “You would have died if I didn't do something.”

“Some might consider that a blessing.”

SM shrugged, letting it go without comment. He set the plate in James's lap, handing him a fork as well. “You should eat. Get your strength back.”

Rather than give him some other snarky remark, James forked a bit of pasta and took a bite. It wasn't exquisite, but it would do. He was quite used to the taste of boxed pasta by now. In fact, the more he ate, the more he realized just how hungry he was. “So.” He licked a few prongs before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you always so generous with your home?”

“Isn't really my home.”

“Oh?”

“It's just some flat that hasn't been lent out yet. Landlord was asleep, so I figure it wouldn't hurt to move in for a day or two.”

“Ah. Well for the record, I love what you've done with the place.” He took another forkful of pasta, but didn't hoist it up yet. “You know... most people would have let me rot.”

“I'm not most people.”

“Clearly.” He took another bite of his meal. “What should I call you then? Frankly your initials are a bit risqué. S&M and all that.” He smiled. “Unless you're into that-”

“Sebastian. Sebastian Moran.” Standing, Sebastian stuffed his hands into his pockets, his silvery eyes peering down at James without modesty. “And what do I call you?”

James tapped his fork to his plate and thought. He'd certainly had a lot of names in the past. “Freak” being the usual fare. Then of course there was the handy little nickname Rod and the boys gave him. And to be honest, his full name was growing a bit tiresome. Might as well start anew.

“Just call me Jim.”


End file.
